Fix Your Hearts or Die!

A Reflection on Twin Peaks, David Lynch, and Parasocial Relationships

 Since my freshman year of college, I’ve had an unofficial tradition of rewatching Twin Peaks every October. The past few years have made this task increasingly difficult as the show passes through the changing hands of streaming. This year's rewatch was followed by an interest in finding something to fill the Twin Peaks-shaped void in my media appetite. But after about a month of watching some pretty good shows and movies, that void persisted. Moreover, two quotes have stayed at the forefront of my mind. 

In an exchange with Windom Earle, Garland Briggs is asked what his greatest fear is, to which he responds, “The possibility that love is not enough.” This uncomfortable admission looms over the rest of the series and is the question that lingers following what was then thought of as the series finale.

Laura Palmer was loved, however imperfectly, by Donna, by James, by Bobby, by Sarah. And the news of her death shatters the town, as even those who didn’t know or like her, like Audrey Horne, are deeply moved by her passing. Yet it is only Albert Rosenfeld, Cooper’s curmudgeonly coworker, who sees Laura’s death for what it was: an entirely avoidable tragedy. Albert, whose detached and unpleasant delivery shrouds someone who deeply cares,  presents the most clear assessment of Laura’s murder  “Maybe that’s all BOB is, the evil that men do.” 

Fire Walk With Me, Lynch’s deeply haunting portrait of the last days of Laura Palmer, further reiterates Albert’s point: everyone around her knew she was suffering, and no one helped her. Despite being loved, Laura Palmer was still a scared and lonely teenager going through something truly horrifying. And in the end, despite Laura finding salvation through the angel, love was not enough to save her. This uncomfortable possibility continues to linger in Twin Peaks: The Return (2017). But like Laura’s reprieve, Lynch in his way gives the audience a reprieve. 

The answer to the possibility that love is not enough is given through an exchange with Gordon Cole, played by Lynch himself, and Denise Bryson, portrayed by David Duchovny. As the two reminisce on the early days of Denise’s transition, Gordon remarks 

“And when you became Denise, I told all your colleagues, those clown comics, to fix their hearts or die!” 

The statement is at once an admission of Lynch’s own shortcomings, and a hint at some of the behind-the-scenes push and pull between Lynch and the executives during Twin Peaks’s original run. Duchovny’s portrayal of Denise was groundbreaking for the 1990s. Where most depictions of transwomen were overtly hostile, Denise’s brilliance is in her (relative) normalcy. Though Denise is by no means a perfect character, the compassion and warmth that her character is treated with always make me smile.

Fix your hearts or die. By now, the quote can be found on t-shirts and banners at any pride parade in America, but it underscores a genuine sincerity that a lot of LGBTQ+ people can find solace in.

Much has been said about the complexities of Lynch’s symbolism and his tendency not to explain himself, but in Twin Peaks, the message is painfully, earnestly clear.  I think it’s also important to factor who delivers these two lines as well. The first, the possibility that love is not enough, is delivered by Garland Briggs, a character that Cooper relies on for guidance and reassurance in the story. The second, delivered by Lynch himself, is more metatextual, wherein the author of the story is speaking directly to the audience, emphasized by the camera close-up during the delivery of the line.  The two quotes in tandem present a plea not just for twin peaks but for the audience as well: Love is not enough, you have to care enough to change. 

One of my favorite YouTube videos of all time is Lindsay Ellis’s Death of the Author in which she posits that the eponymous literary theory is now a moot point. Ellis notes that although the theory will live on in its diehard practitioners, practical implementation is increasingly difficult for modern readers of texts. I feel this way, to an extent, about parasocial relationships.  Much has been made of the dangers of parasocial relationships in the past few years, but I think, much like “Death of the Author,” I think we’re past the point of no return. In the year of our lord 2024, harping on about parasocial relationships is akin to harping on about social media in the year 2014; it may not be fully integrated into the cultural lexicon, but it’s too permanent to get rid of now.

By now, we’ve all heard the news of David Lynch’s recent health complications. On TikTok, the girls are catastrophizing. In my neck of the woods (read: Tumblr), nostalgia-posting and saturated gifs seem to be the way to go. But the commonality seems to be in a touching form of parasocial mourning. The outpouring of parasocial concern for Lynch is nothing short of a spectacle, but I don’t think that necessarily makes it a bad thing. None of us - well, few of us- actually know David Lynch. We know him anecdotally and through his rare public appearances, but that’s it. I think Lynch’s low profile, taken in tandem with his eclectic personality, creates a sort of nostalgia that is at the root of this collective grief. This is not to say that people don’t care about Lynch as a person, but that there’s something else at play, too- as there is in all parasocial relationships.  To me, David Lynch represents what it means to confront the evil in the world without becoming hardened by it. It’s the commitment to try to “fix our hearts,” however little, however late.

I don’t think there will ever be another show like Twin Peaks, and most definitely not a director like Lynch, but we can find solace in what it means to us when we watch. And on that note, I’ll leave you with this final image of the Twin Peaks Sheriff Department.